


[Abandoned WIP] What Child is This?

by istia



Series: Abandoned WIP [6]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Canon CI5 Setting, Christmas, M/M, Mid-relationship Angst, POV Ray Doyle, Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:16:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/istia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle is spending Christmas Eve on his own--to Bodie's dismay--when he has an encounter with a dark-haired, blue-eyed child who trails mystery in his wake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[Abandoned WIP] What Child is This?

**Author's Note:**

> This story was going to be a Christmas-Eve-magic-works-in-mysterious-ways fic. In succeeding encounters, Doyle would meet two more boys, ages 11 and 13, with Doyle's dawning realisation of how much they eerily resemble not only each other, but Bodie. Reflecting on them and Bodie would lead to the resolution of the division between them at the story's beginning. (NB: Huskisson Dock is on the Mersey.)

"Come on, mate, aren't you finished dotting those i's and crossing those t's yet? If we get this report in, we can get out of here by--" Bodie checked his watch and beamed "--five-thirty!"

"Yeah, yeah, what's the rush? Gimme a mo."

With a rustle of papers gathered together and a clatter of biros swept into a drawer, Bodie cleared his side of the desk and stood. He stretched luxuriantly and noisily.

"What's the plan, then? Got lots of time to prepare. A nice change, this--the whole evening free. First time, isn't it? First ruddy time in four years."

The note of wonder in Bodie's voice made Doyle smile involuntarily even as he concentrated on completing his report. The final report on the day's successful conclusion to an op that had been threatening to consume their time for days to come, until matters took an unexpected turn to their advantage. "Big kid," an errant voice murmured in Doyle's brain, but from so deep a well of affection he was barely aware of the sentiment.

"Eh?" He typed the final period and pulled the sheet from the typewriter. "There. Poor bastards."

"'Poor bastards'! They were trying to blow your pretty little arse off, mate, when they hit that box of incendiaries instead--and suddenly it was raining--"

"They were cornered, and menaced. They weren't armed, you know, until they got into that warehouse and the weapons were at hand. Must have been a hell of a shock, learning out of the blue that what they'd been doing to try to stop the traffic of exotic animal parts had been subverted to cover arms-smuggling. Christ, they didn't even know how to use the bloody guns they grabbed."

"Still came too close to providing a few more areas for patches on your jeans." The lower lip of Bodie's mobile mouth jutted out in a wilful, obstinate pout.

Doyle gazed at his partner with exasperation. "Wild shots, Bodie. They were more danger to themselves--as they rapidly demonstrated. They were naive, that's all. Nothing but pathetic oicks. It's Hutchings we need to find--"

"Not us, mate." Bodie grabbed Doyle's report and shuffled it together with his own. "Shake a leg, Doyle. The Cow's let us out of the madhouse for the duration--first time in four years!--and this lot's Anson's baby now. We did our bit in not getting ourselves banged up; saved Cowley no end of money and reports, that did, so now we've got our reward. So let's shake a leg before he sees us and forgets about our leave."

Doyle was only half into his anorak when Bodie hustled him out of their small office and shut the door firmly behind them. Bodie's proprietary hand in the small of his back propelled him down the corridor towards the Controller's office. Four years of partnership had its drawbacks. Bodie had honed the skill of blanking out Doyle's spates of complaining; he hustled Doyle along in apparently blissful ignorance of all protests and insults.

After completing his mission of first sneaking a peek into the Controller's office, then tiptoeing past the open door and around the corner to deposit the report on Betty's desk and making his stealthy way out again, Bodie once again collared his partner. He propelled them both down the stairs.

"Ruddy great bear! Will you quit mauling me." Doyle shrugged himself free and settled his jacket more comfortably on his shoulders.

Bodie rubbed his hands together as they emerged into a cool, crisp, but gloriously clear and starry December late afternoon. "Look at that! A perfect day. The reindeer will enjoy the run tonight."

"What are you on about?"

"Norad'll be tracking them soon. Used to like listening to their reports on my dad's shortwave when I was a kid. Making their sweep, over the Pole, taking a left at the North Star--"

"Straight on till morning, I suppose, with Peter bloody Pan at the wheel and Tinkerbell lighting the way."

"Don't mix your fairies, Doyle."

Bodie pained grimace transmuted Doyle's scowl into a grin.

"Santa better not mix his fairies, or he won't be fit to drive at all!" Doyle gave full rein to the hilarity infusing him with goodwill. "He'll be pulled over for exceeding his fairy-limit!"

"Har dee har hah."

"Probably in Soho!" Doyle managed to wheeze out this last diamond of wit before dissolving into unintelligible guffaws, privileging Bodie with his imitation of a cistern burbling out of control. He was gratified to see Bodie wince.

"I don't know, old son." Bodie's grip on his arm both propped him up and guided him to the Escort. "Can't see why I put up with you--except you need me so damn much."

A wet snuffle followed by a sniff of grotesque proportions signalled the end of Doyle's bout of rapture as he slid into the passenger's seat. He stretched out his jeans-clad legs and settled with a sigh back into sombre introspection. 

Bodie glanced at him, and shifted in his seat; he stole another look before taking an audible breath. His tone was light when he spoke. "So, I reckon you'll be ringing Shelagh, eh? Give her a nice surprise, having you around after all."

"Nah. She's gone home, hasn't she. Funny how birds of all sorts all become homing pigeons at Christmas. Girls who flock to Town to find work and independence through the year all unerringly flock back home at the holidays."

Bodie's voice was as plummy as Cowley's at his most unctuous. "Oh, tough luck."

Silence fell as Bodie threaded the car through the tangle of Christmas Eve traffic. The ribbons of light attracted Doyle's eyes. He leaned his head back, feeling some of the day's tension at last seeping out of him. As the silence stretched, he shook himself into a show of interest.

He turned his head to look at Bodie without lifting it from its rest. "Lynn's local, though, isn't she? 'spect you'll be lucky, anyway. No wonder you're so happy to be off early."

"She's still going home, though, for dinner and that. Asked me to go with her; quite miffed when I said I'd probably be working."

The silence was longer this time. The scenario was too familiar for comment: Girls inevitably reached the point of that one-time-too-many of not having an escort at an important event, of being stood-up once too often.

Eventually, Doyle yawned, then drawled, "Bit serious--wanting you to go home to the family for Christmas. Downright intimate. Thought you'd only been seeing her a few weeks."

"I'm irresistible. Told you often enough. Doesn't take long to slay them."

"Never have seen her. Bit homely, is she? Hard up?"

He smirked as Bodie contented himself with an expressive snort.

Tension seeped back into Doyle, though. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and they had three days off--on standby, but close enough to hope not to be disturbed--and neither of them had a bird in the hand....

A few minutes later, they left behind the traffic of the main roads and it took Bodie little time to reach Doyle's flat. When he stopped the engine, Bodie rubbed his hands together and gave him a smile of glee that gleamed even in the dim light of the street lamps.

"Right. A quick stop for a change, give you a polish, and we'll be in plenty of time."

"Time? For what?"

"Christmas Eve bash down the Dog, what else? Have a few drinks with the lads, gorge on Hetty's buffet, and still get home in time to decorate. I've got some stuff in a crate in the spare room wardrobe--haven't put up any decorations in years--build a fire...oh, ye-e-eah, Jack Daniels in front of the fire...should stop at the grocery, get some supplies...we can sleep in tomorrow--"

Doyle cleared his throat loudly to break the painful flow of happy plans. He opened the door. Keeping his eyes turned resolutely from his partner's glowing face, he slid out of the car. He hesitated, took a steadying breath, then leant down to look in the door.

"Nah, mate, not tonight. I'm knackered. Think I'll make it an early one."

"Oh." Disappointment laced the expressive voice, but Bodie made a valiant rally. "Okay. We can have a quiet one. We'll pick up your stuff, hit the shops on the way home, and just relax. You can stretch out like a prince and I'll drape you in lametta."

The leer accompanying the words was over-the-top. Doyle couldn't help laughing. Damn, it always happened; Bodie inevitably got to him.

"You're barmy, mate. Go on. Go to your bash at the pub, see the lads and inhale Hetty's buffet. Enjoy yourself. I'll see you in a couple of days--trusting we don't get called in sooner, of course!"

He'd straightened when Bodie's voice, a note of urgency making it higher than normal, made him pause.

"Wait! You can't mean it--it's the first time we've had off in four years. Our first free Christmas...together."

Doyle closed his eyes briefly, and made himself bend back down to look into the car's interior. He forced a smile. "It's just another day, sunshine. Christmas Eve, Christmas Day: it's for the birds, isn't it? And kids. It's for families, mate. Those fools who blew themselves up today, their families aren't going to be celebrating anything--"

"Bloody hell, Doyle, they're nothing to do with us! It's not our fault those idiots got themselves mixed up with smugglers and paid the ultimate price for their own stupidity. It could have been us, you know. That one shot that ricocheted, before the explosion, that one came bloody close to smashing your head open, and then it would've been me--"

Bodie stopped, drawing in a sharp breath in a suddenly potent silence. Neither of them moved for long moments. Doyle waited tensely, with eyes averted, for the unspeakable to be said. He wasn't looking at Bodie, but he fancied he could see his partner biting down hard on his own tongue. Doyle's fingers ached where they were gripping the door frame.

Finally, with his hands clasping the wheel, Bodie spoke in a low, bitter voice. "They're nothing the fuck to do with us. Why do you always have to do this? Turn all broody about the world out there, and don't give a damn about what's at home--"

"Look, Christmas just isn't important to me, all right? It's for kids and families. Like you said, I'm in a mood; I'm not going to be any use to be around tonight. Ring up your bird, or join the lads in the pub. Whatever you like. I--I'm sorry, Bodie."

"Yeah. Sorry."

Doyle slammed the door and strode away as quickly as he could. He willed the engine to start behind him, knowing instead that eyes as dark and fathomless as the twilight sky above were fixed on him every step as he moved across the pavement, up the steps, fumbled the keys out of his pocket and into the lock and opened the door and escaped, escaped into the lonely sanctuary of the foyer. He set his back to the wood and glass and leaned on the door to close it, putting a barrier between himself and the car, hearing the engine at last, at long last, kick into life, muted but with the clarity of a bell to his focused senses. He pushed away from the door and moved to the lift. Ignoring the slight tremble of his fingers as he juggled his keys, restlessly sorting the ones to his security locks, he pressed the button for the slow, cantankerous lift.

"Bloody fool." The tiny voice deep in his mind sounded a familiar complaint. "He's nothing but a big kid himself--and just as demanding as one. Never asks, just expects...."

The little voice was abruptly a sounding brass raw on his besieged emotions: "Just always bloody well expects too fucking much."

He ignored the lift, too restless to abide its slow descent, and took the stairs two at a time. Three flights up and still tingling with energy, he opened his door and moved into the chill, dark interior. Flicking on lights, he thumbed up the heating, then moved across the living room to draw the curtains. He paused with his hand on the cord, eyes caught by pockets of warm yellow light studding the darkness. A handful of uncovered windows afforded glances into moments of other people's lives, like looking through viewing-ports at strange passing creatures in an aquarium. Children rushed across one tiny framed opening in a block to the east, while a more stately group of adults laughed, glasses in hand, behind a mist of netting in the bay window of the flat above the ironmongers across the road. He glimpsed a few other lives in snatched impressions of warmth and gaiety, just as his own privacy was violable to anyone who cared to glance up and inside this lit window. He yanked on the cord, sinking back to rest against the windowsill when he was safely closeted within.

Not that the world would glimpse much within his home. He let his eyes rove, touching briefly on each item in its accustomed place. No seasonal decorations to catch the eye and add colour. No garlands strewn across the walls, no shiny balls or red bows or evergreens brightening the room. The only concession to the season was the small display of cards standing haphazardly amongst his tin soldiers. One card that had refused to stand up on its own, he'd bayoneted. He grinned at it mirthlessly, the fat red-flocked belly pierced right through. From his cousin's kids, that one was. No matter that they were too young to print their names, or that they had no real idea who he was; she was the type who bought and sent out cards from her dog. He'd actually got one a few years ago. It was a bit of a relief when the first baby had come along and supplanted the dog in her enthusiastic, wide-flung affections.

He'd call his mum on Boxing Day, as he always did. His vision narrowed as he stared at the greeting cards. Easy to pick out his mum's, even from across the room. None of that flocked nonsense; no bright wreaths or cheery snowmen waving stick arms or nostalgic scenes of bucolic villagers gathered round a huge Christmas tree. No, his mother had more Spartan tastes. He honed in unerringly on the dullest, dreariest one, nothing but a navy background with PEACE in burgundy letters across the front, and considered it moodily. Did she get a box all the same at 50p off or had she picked that one out especially for him? He wondered the same thing every year and never managed to find an answer.

Not that it the fuck mattered. He'd call her as usual, though he'd have to lie this year. He pushed away from the window and turned his back on the paltry few cards, going into the kitchen and shrugging out of his jacket as the flat warmed. Work was his excuse for not going home for Christmas. It'd worked out well all these years, first volunteering each year in the Met to do the Christmas shift, then just letting Cowley steamroll him into being on duty year after year, though he made the expected token complaints. Would have been the same this time if it hadn't been for those fools...those young, idealistic, stupid....

So, he'd lie this year. His mother, who disapproved strenuously, on principal, of dishonesty, was nevertheless a firm believer in the "social lie". He'd never managed to grasp the difference between bad fibs and good ones; one of his many failings. He grinned again, quite mirthfully this time, as he banged the kettle onto the stove and set about the mindless automatism of making tea. He'd deliberately, many years before, separated himself from the culture and ethics of his mother's world. He'd had his warning--and just in time--and learnt his lesson well.

He paused, teaspoon in hand, staring sightlessly across the gleam of the green and white kitchen into the past. He and Deany Marshall from down Firbeck Lane it had been, both sixteen, both hot for it, neither thinking beyond the moment. Until the day when the world stood still, hell itself peering out of her white face and wide eyes as she'd whispered her news: "My monthly's late, Ray." He'd stared into her eyes, as mesmerised as though blinded by headlamps, feeling his own eyes as wide as the saucers hers were. He'd felt them teetering on the edge of a precipice, a maw of darkness waiting to suck them in, right alongside all the previous young fools who'd been ruled by their hormones and their hubris, all the people before them who'd never thought it could happen to them or what it would mean. Deany and he saw it all laid out before them on the instant, though, both of them sickly aware of their options for their futures evaporating, leaving them nothing but the dictates of consequences: marriage; settling in the neighbourhood; having to give up school, he to become a resentful, angry day labourer like their dads, she to become a cranky, carping captive of the house like their mothers and aunts and neighbours. The two of them caught there, trapped for ever in _Family_ and _Neighbourhood_ and _Responsibilities_.

He banged the spoon down and busied himself with making the tea. Five of the longest bleeding days of his life it had been, teetering on that precipice, wondering if he and Deany were going to fall and be sucked away. Relief like little he'd known when she'd arrived at first class one morning looking exultant. She'd glowed at him, eyes bright in her pale face, and flashed him a victory sign with the cocky grin that had attracted him to her in the first place. They'd escaped the maw. They were still free. 

_Be free, get away, be safe_ : a mantra that had sounded in his mind continually during those five excruciating days had become even more insistent.

He gave up on the tea, stood and paced into the living room, then threaded through the few rooms of his home. The flat belonged to CI5 and was assigned to him for only a few months before he'd be moved to another, again allotted by the housing department. Nevertheless, this place was his by virtue of his having earned it. Not a fancy flat, but far above anything he'd have hoped ever to have if he'd been trapped in that world he'd come from.

Deany had seen the trap, too, he knew. They'd remained friends, but each of them had focused after that on escaping; their sexual relationship had ended by mutual consent, tainted by the near miss their joint laxness had created. He'd become an expert at sneaking out in his dad's coat, slicking his hair down to look older, and going into a chemist's out of the neighbourhood to buy French letters. He suspected Deany'd done something similar to safeguard herself, though what he didn't know; maybe she'd finagled her older sister into getting her a diaphragm. And he'd always used a Frenchy, even when the girl had insisted she used a diaphragm herself. He'd made sure he stuck to experienced girls after that, too, the ones who were known to go with lots of boys. Even if one did get up the spout, he wouldn't have to be the one to take the blame.

He'd stuck it out doggedly in school, working for that all-important leaving-school certificate. Deany had done the same. As soon as they'd finished, they'd parted ways: she'd gone north, to Leeds, to stay with an aunt who was willing to have her whilst Deany went to secretarial school; he'd headed straight south to London, and into Hendon and billeting in the stationhouse. Deany Pritchard, it was now. They'd drifted out of touch a few years ago, but he still got the news of the neighbourhood from his mum on his monthly calls. He and Deany were scandals for having left home. If they'd been caught out and had to marry, he had no doubt his mum would have mined the event for all it was worth, heaping coals of shame on his head in private while reviling that Marshall girl from up the Lane as a slut even while Deany's mum would've been broadcasting her opinion of that Mrs Doyle's randy lout of a son from over on Millbank. They'd have been pleased to be grandmums, though, and united in trying to run his and Deany's lives, and ever so glad their families wouldn't ever be split apart.

The worst thing that had ever happened to his mum, Doyle was convinced--even worse than losing her second-born at only five months old--was the year his dad had moved them out of the neighbourhood. Unable to find work, and refusing to settle down decently on the dole as a thoughtful husband would, he'd instead insisted they move with him to a town a few miles distant. It wasn't natural to move so far away from home, not to his mum. It wasn't natural to expect more than what your parents had. It wasn't right or good that people didn't accept their circumstances and their places in the world. She'd spent the entire year away complaining, and he never remembered seeing her happier than when his father had defeatedly moved them back and found a row house on the Close for rent, just around the corner form Millbank. She'd settled back down with her cronies and the Bingo Hall and her stultifying routine, all right with her world again.

At least until his dad had defected. Which she'd never got over, just as Deany's mum apparently couldn't reconcile herself to the unnaturalness of a daughter who had been married for five years now but showed no signs of wanting, or even intending, ever to have a baby. 

The working-class ethos: never attempt to exceed the limitations of your origins.

He grimaced, leaning on two stiff arms against the wall in the bedroom, flexing a kink in his back. He'd certainly earned his right today to live in this small but comfortable and roomy flat in a decent London area. Earned the right to the falsehood he would tell his mother to excuse his not going home, to escape heading back to that suffocating place at this most familial of times. He paused, head down, hearing again the whizz of the bullet that had ricocheted uncomfortably close to his head. The near-miss that had so scared Bodie.

Bodie. He straightened and turned, pressing his back against the wall, trying aimlessly to work the stiffness out of his shoulders. He looked moodily at the bed. Wide and inviting, with a fresh green counterpane not quite smoothed flat. Could always tell when Bodie had stayed the night. Corners tucked with military precision and not a wrinkle to be seen. When he turned down the counterpane tonight, Doyle knew he'd find a pillow he'd forgotten to plump up, or a sheet not turned down properly, or a mess of wrinkles lurking under the covers. Or all three problems at once, of course. Not that he was a particularly messy bloke, no matter what Bodie claimed, but he knew himself prone to absentmindedness where it involved housekeeping matters. He lacked Bodie's efficiency.

He lacked a great many things Bodie provided.

He'd glimpsed the terror in Bodie's eyes as they'd glanced at each other in the aftermath of the bullet before breaking apart and each diving into new cover. He'd seen that terror before. He'd seen it in his own eyes during those five interminable days as his life had tottered on the axis of change; seen it in Deany's eyes, too. Their shared terror at being trapped, at being lost to themselves. Bodie's terror was of loss, too; Doyle knew that. He knew it deep in his soul even as his own fears had forced Bodie not to speak the confining words.

Partners for four years; best mates for three. Occasional bedmates for going on eighteen months. Well, become more than occasional over the past half-year. If Bodie had his way....

Pushing violently away from the wall, and away from sight of the bed, Doyle strode from the bedroom, down the hall, past the bathroom, into the living room. He circled, looking, seeking, then moved more rapidly into the kitchen where he found the object of his search. He snatched up his jacket from a chair back, grabbed the keys from his pocket, and left. He emerged into the clear air with a gasp of relief, hurrying down the steps onto the pavement, pulling the zipper of his anorak closed against the dark chill. A beautiful clear night indeed; stars were as bright as carols overhead. Orion strode above as Doyle tread below, aimless but determined. He breathed deeply, drawing refreshing air into his lungs. Only after he'd walked hard for a good forty-five minutes did the tremor in his blood calm, and his steps slowed, and he looked about.

He was almost to the Embankment, he realised, bemused at the direction he'd taken. He usually walked--or, more often, jogged--in the opposite direction, to the heath with its trees and lessened fug of traffic fumes. Not that that was a problem tonight, he noted wryly, as he continued at a more leisurely pace towards the Thames. Must be one of the quietest nights of the year, Christmas Eve, even in London. Though not so surprisingly in the City itself, with businesses virtually all closed by now and the people off to their homes and families. A few hackneys shot by, carrying merrymakers, perhaps, too drunk to drive, or tourists without homes, flitting from hotel to restaurant and back again.

He stepped to the Embankment's stone wall next to a lamp standard entwined with a sea dragon, and stared out at the dark expanse of the river. Dotted with a number of small lights, the placid surface was lightly pebbled with movement from the tide and a barely discernible wind. It looked deceptively sluggish, oddly peaceful and soothing. Doyle placed a hand against the cold stone and drew in the fresh air and the sense of being free.

Not that he wanted to be free of Bodie. That was a given. Surely even Bodie, despite those insecurities of his hidden skilfully behind the insouciant coolness, could see that. Why did it have to be spelt out, why did it have to be said? Bodie was part of his life, woven into the warp and weft of his existence. Cowley had foisted Bodie onto Doyle, and Doyle had accepted and worked the arrogant git into his life.

Now here he was. Here they were. Entwined in ways neither had ever foreseen.

Doyle walked east, trailing a hand along the rough stonework. He'd seen the terror for that instant in Bodie's eyes in the warehouse today, and it had all crashed back in on him. Suffocating fear: Of being responsible for another person, of being needed too much, of being caught and not ever being able to free himself again. Bodie was always careful not to push his wants onto Doyle, except for the seepage and those moments when he couldn't control his emotions. After sex, for instance. During sex, Doyle could use the heat and the clamber of sensations to block out Bodie's breathless murmurs, the affirmations of...feelings. Afterwards, though, lying together, sated and well, it was more difficult to ignore the tenderness in the mute strokes of Bodie's big hands along his spine or over his hair; the sweetness in Bodie's kisses on his temple or his ear or his shoulder; the hesitant small laps at Doyle's sweat here, and there; the gentleness in Bodie's cupping of Doyle's limp genitals, as though Bodie were gathering treasure to himself. These moments were poignant for Doyle, and yet disturbing because they laid bare the vulnerability in his partner.

When he'd seen the terror in Bodie's eyes today, his gut had lurched at being confronted with his partner's vulnerability. It shouldn't be for him, not that, not given to Doyle: not all of Bodie's capacity for devotion. And Doyle shouldn't be made, all willy-nilly, into the shield for Bodie's vulnerability. Bodie couldn't even see his side of what'd happened today. Fixed on himself, Bodie was; fixed on having Doyle, fixed on making Doyle into the fulcrum of Bodie's life. Stupid bloody fool. He was plenty old enough to have learned life didn't work like that. A man had to make his own happiness; had to be his own peace and security a person depended on. No one could depend on its coming from someone else.

It comes from inside, Bodie, he thought, moving on again from another lamp standard, peering all the while into the light-flecked blank stretch of the Thames. You stupid bloody bastard. Why d'you have to want everything?

Abruptly stepping into a bank of thick mist, Doyle blinked, startled out of his thoughts. The night had seemed too clear for fog, but this was London and it was the Thames, and no doubt there was a proper meteorological explanation for unexpected patches of mist on cold winter nights. He walked on, feeling the roughness under his trailing right hand with heightened awareness while his eyes were blanked and his ears were momentarily muffled. He savoured the sensation. Stretching his body, walking, using his muscles--even after a day like today--was always a panacea for ills. He strolled on, confident in his own capabilities, and emerged as abruptly as he had submerged from the mist into light.

Rather more light than there had seemed to be before, but the mist lingered in a ragged nimbus around him, hiding the view of the river. It seemed to be diffusing the light from the lamps, making them deceptively brighter. Becoming aware of a raucous creak of unoiled wheels moving rapidly if haphazardly towards him, Doyle paused, unwilling to trust he wouldn't be mown over before he could place the direction. A crash and correspondent squeal of grating metal was punctuated with a distinctly childish wail. The mist drifted aside, revealing a small boy hunkered down beside a battered red contraption tip-tilted over the kerb, the left front wheel lying in the gutter. Doyle smiled, and walked over to squat beside the disconsolate owner.

"Had an accident, mate?" He cast an assessing eye over the damage.

"It's come all askew!" The child's thick accent teased at Doyle. What was it? Not Cockney, for sure. "I've to meet me dad; he's due in any minute. Mum needed me to go to the baker's first, she ran out of yeast and she needed it to make the tea buns Dad fancies, and Mrs Wilcox from over t'road was in there gabbing the way she does, and it took for ever to make Mr Saunders notice me, and I had to jump up and down to make him see I was there--and now old Red's gone bust!"

Doyle blinked at the barrage, and turned his grin of amusement into one he hoped was merely reassuring. "Well, not to worry, let's have a look. Maybe we can get old Red back on his wheels again."

The child gave him a sideways look at this jest, but helpfully bent his dark, curly head to peer underneath as Doyle lifted the wagon from the road.

"It's all bent!"

"Nah, now, wait a minute, let's get a proper look."

Doyle set the small, homemade wagon on its side. It appeared to have been bunged together by placing a pair of orange boxes, with the interior wall of each removed, on a wooden board, with old pram wheels affixed to the sides and a shovel handle to the front end. The whole lot was painted fire engine red. From the gouges and scrapes, the little vehicle seemed to get a lot of use. Doyle examined the end of the axle, which was, indeed, bent.

Doyle pursed his lips and looked down at the anxious, upturned face. Huge blue eyes fringed in black stared at him compellingly, demanding action. Trust. He could feel it like a tangible entity. What on earth was the brat even doing out on the streets at this time of night, never mind trusting a stranger? What were his parents thinking?

"Where--"

"You can fix it, can't you, mister? Just to hold a bit. Me dad'll do it up proper later. I've got to meet him, see. He's expecting me; he'll be awful worried if I don't show. And Mum's expecting both of us. But we need old Red to bring the tree home."

"The tree?" Doyle paused, diverted. He looked at the obviously well-used, but not very large, wagon. "Christmas tree, you mean?"

Another odd look. "Course." The child looked slightly less trusting now; he looked, indeed, as though he suspected Doyle were cracked. "Dad always makes sure he'll be home by Christmas Eve. It's me mum and dad's anniversary, see. Well, Mum says it's not because they didn't get married till April, but Dad says it is 'cause they met on Christmas Eve and they got engaged on the next Christmas Eve. Dad always brings Mum an extra-special Christmas Eve anniversary present. Last year, it was a necklace all made of orangey stuff--coral, Dad called it. It looks some pretty. And me mum's wearing it right now 'cause she's waiting, and we have to get to Mr Rennie's before he shuts up and there aren't any trees left and then what'll we do?"

Doyle halted the flow with the expedience of a trained agent: he moved into action. Setting old Red on its side, he removed the other wheel and slid the axle free. As his audience of one watched with unnerving intensity, Doyle placed the bent end of the axle against the kerb edge and attempted to straighten it just sufficiently to get the wheel fitted back on. Straining as hard as he could, he couldn't budge it. Ready to give up, another glance at the anxious face made him sigh. He lay the axle on the pavement and prepared to bend the greater force in his foot to the task.

"What's your name, son?" He bore down carefully on the axle, dreading the wail that would ensue if he accidentally broke the entire thing off.

"Me mum and dad mostly call me Titch." The boy's voice was muffled as he was now lying curled in the gutter so he could sight along the axle as Doyle slowly straightened it. "I don't like my real names."

"Oh? What's wrong with them, then?"

"Mum and Dad only use 'em when I'm in trouble," and he looked up with a mischievous grin made all the more enchanting for the large gap where he was missing his two front teeth.

Bloody little charmer, Doyle thought, unable to help grinning back.

"I reckon that's got it! Look!" The boy lowered one eye dangerously close to the rough end of the axle.

Doyle hastily stopped pressing, and rescued the eye by snatching up the loose axle. He fit it into place, and fastened the good wheel. After some wrangling--and quiet swearing--he managed to force the bent wheel onto the other end of the axle.

He looked about hastily--the child's impatient movement from foot to foot was unnerving--and then enquired, "Seen the wheel nut? Have a look about. Won't get far without it."

After a frantic scramble over the gutter and pavement--in overalls that fortunately looked like they were used to such treatment--the boy pounced triumphantly on the precious small piece of metal, and Doyle screwed it into place with all the force his fingers could muster. With trepidation, he set the wagon on its wheels and watched as its young master tested it.

"Go easy, now. Your dad'll need to fix a new axle and straighten that wheel."

"Sure thing! My dad knows all about this stuff." He spoke with the pride of a son confident of his father's abilities being superior to those of anyone else in the world.

Doyle smiled. "Get on with you then, Titch." He added, just as the boy was about to clatter away, "Where did you say you're meeting your dad?"

"Over to Huskisson. He were supposed to get in yesterday, like, but the harbourmaster, he got a message they'd had to stop at Greenock, so they couldn't get in till today. I got to run, mister, I don't want my dad to worry and we got to get the tree, thanks a lot!"

"Here." Doyle flipped a coin into the air and grinned at the boy's quick grab. Fine reflexes. Nice to know more than that tongue could move quickly. "Go on then, son. Buy your mum and dad some mistletoe."

"Coo, a half-sovereign? Thanks, mister! Merry Christmas, mister!"

In the drowning clatter of old Red barrelling down the street, Doyle stood with his jaw dropped. A half-sovereign? Surely he'd flipped the kid a 50p coin. He must be losing it. How would he get a half-sovereign in his pocket without realising?

As he stepped back to the Embankment wall, he shrugged, though another query intruded: Where--and what, for that matter--the hell was Huskisson? A dock? Sounded like the father was a seaman, but he knew of no dock with that name, and certainly not in this area.

Blinking away the problem as inconsequential--the child had looked eminently comfortable with his surroundings--Doyle strolled a little farther, feeling an odd easefulness from the encounter. So Christmas and families weren't all bad. Not all kids experienced what he had, with the bedraggled decorations dragged out each year because it was the thing to do. His mother making cake and stuffing a goose because it was the thing expected of a housewife in the area, and his dad sacrificing an hour from his time at the local to drag home a tree and set it in the stand because it was what he was meant to do; and all of them dutifully grateful for each gift, even the dreary socks and predictable hankies; and dutifully obedient to the various demands that regimented the day, including accepting Uncle Cyril's belches and old Gran's drooling simpleness.

Bodie, now, Bodie truly loved Christmas. Where'd he get that from, eh? He hadn't heard much of Bodie's childhood, but what titbits he'd gleaned hadn't evoked Dickensian cheer. So where did he get it from? Did he dredge it up out of some hidden well of happiness deep within himself untouched by the harsh realities of most of his life?

Now Bodie wanted to mantle Doyle in this haven alongside him, sharing it all. The stupid bastard wanted to share all of himself, even the wide-eyed lad surviving inside the capable, efficient adult.

Doyle didn't have a lad of his own, though; he'd escaped that ill fate. All he needed was an overgrown kid clattering along after him with his battered old Reds and his irresistible smiles and his needs and his wants. If he wanted a kid, he'd get one the ordinary way, wouldn't he.

"Not that any kid of his would be like Bodie, of course," the little voice murmured deep inside his head. "Not in looks, sure, but not in sweetness or lightness or, admit it, lovingness, either."

That titch, now: he could have been Bodie's; but never Doyle's. And it was the titches of the world that got under his skin.


End file.
